I had that dream again last night, the one with the little girl. Only this time her dress was red; bright red, crimson red, blood red. As usual, she was standing on a barren strip of ground. Above her, suspended impossibly in mid-air, was that same round, large clock with its white face and its two startlingly black hands. In the dream I tried as hard as I could to see the time on the clock, but as always I was not able to do so. Then, just as the little girl's dark eyes bored directly into mine, I woke up in a cold sweat. Thus begins the tale of Rages of the Night, a metaphysical/visionary novella. The story is that of a lone solider who, when critically wounded in the chest during a fierce battle, finds himself in a sort of purgatory between life and death, only he doesn't know it. In his sudden and suspended state that begins in that fleeing instant of imposed twilight when he feels himself dying, he remains the same inside, . So that his external reality and challenges are all just as before. He is in the same war torn country, still fighting and fleeing the same enemy. The only difference is the supernatural little girl who befriends him; a ragged and starving enemy child who leads him through the many dangers and rages of this odd and difficult journey, who leads him through his personal rages of the night, who leads him safely at last through this harsh purgatory. Until, finally, with her help, he escapes a hell of his own making and comes away with a deeper understanding of sacrifice, of love, of the need and the very glory of peace. From Chapter 1: "Did 'cha ever think about dying?" I shifted my lean buttocks until I was comfortable again on the small boulder. My back felt stiff and my legs hurt from having run so far that day. There was a faint almost inaudible buzzing in my right ear, another indefinable jungle pest that I knew would take yet another bite from my neck's filthy flesh before I would have time to kill it. I slapped at it anyway, but I could feel the slight sting before I was able to destroy the small insect. I stared down at the seven-year old girl sitting at my feet. Her own small arms and legs were dotted with bug bites. Her face was also dirty and her long, fine, black hair was still wet and matted. Her hair was naturally matted after being in the open for so long. A comb and other toiletries were not available to us on the run. The muslin dress that had been nearly falling off from rot and wear when I found her was not much more now than ragged strips held together by loose threads here and there. She stared back at me, widening her large brown eyes while twisting a shred of cloth on the skirt of her torn and sooty dress "Did 'cha ever?" she persisted, while I paused to gather my thoughts. "Did 'cha ever think about dying?" Some type of bird landed nearby and I reached automatically for my rifle before realizing it was just a bird. My joints ached from sleeping out in the weather. Still sitting, head down, I pondered her words. For even though it had seemed more times than I cared to remember that our short lives would surely end, her soft-spoken question had still surprised me.
About the Author: Marijoyce Porcelli has written for Chicken Soup for the Soul books, USAirways magazine, Let's Live, Orange Coast, Mature Living, and many other publications. She is also the author of the book Voice of a Southern Woman. In addition, she develops and teaches writing courses for adults.